Spooky Hotel Story
by HerFairy
Summary: There's no such thing as ghouls, goblins, ghosts, or monsters. Of all the things she doesn't know, her feelings towards Killian Jones included, she knows this, but now she's not so sure of anything. AU, haunted hotel fic.
1. one

**Inspired by a trip I took with my aunt where we arrived at the hotel only to find out the power would be out for most of the evening. This is all written already so expect frequent updates and only four chapters (three + an epilogue). All my thanks to** _joneskillian_ **on tumblr for looking this over for me and offering invaluable advice while I wrote it!**

W **arnings for maybe horror in future chapters? I don't think it's that scary, but who knows.**

* * *

 **One**

Her bug could withstand the passage of time, the miles upon miles of unknown roads, and being broken into twice within its years of existence. What it couldn't stand? Hitting a pothole in the middle of nowhere while the rain decided that tonight of all nights was the night to release the pent up rage of Poseidon.

She swore, banging her palm against the wheel as her car spluttered and died, the windshield wipers swiping furiously against the glass, and pulled off to the side of the road.

Luckily, it wasn't a lonely stretch of highway. Raining during her time of distress was one cliché enough, thank you very much, but she also hadn't passed another vehicle in close to fifteen minutes that hadn't been a trucker. No, she wasn't quite desperate enough to trust one of them. So maybe that was rude, they were honest people doing a long day's work to bring all the things wasting away in her car to a place near her, but she knew the statistics...

Okay, she watched enough crime shows to know that truck drivers were a hive of potential killers. She had no wish to join the statistics.

She turned her key, biting her lip hard as the rain's downpour decided to worsen. Her windshield wipers froze halfway through the motion. The bug spluttered and hacked, but didn't make a move to regain power. Old Yeller wasn't quite up to the task of taking her all the way to Storybrooke, Maine to visit her son and his adoptive family, probably a sign of all the bad things that would come to letting herself be part of his life.

She leaned her forehead on the wheel, sucking in a ragged breath, forcing the negative thoughts away. It wasn't her first time visiting Storybrooke after all. She had been up there quite a few times since Henry had found her a year ago, so much so that she was contemplating packing up her dreary, lonely apartment in Boston and making the move there permanently just to be closer.

Reasonably, it would cut the costs on the gas she spent to come here. Emotionally, it was just because Storybrooke was more home than anywhere had ever been. Henry, of course, being the main reason for that, as the sole person to love her regardless of her faults, but with him had come a whole cast of characters that Emma hadn't anticipated.

Like the eternally optimistic and headstrong Mary Margaret Blanchard or the brave, kind David Nolan or the quiet, reserved Elsa Arendelle or the intelligent, determined Belle French. Or, though she loathed to admit this to his smug, attractive face, the so called dashing rapscallion Killian Jones too.

It was more people than she knew what to do with and it was frightening as much as it was exhilarating.

The fact that she couldn't make the drive to Storybrooke on the night she was finally going to look into a place to live meant that could only be intervention by the fates. She closed her eyes tightly because though Henry had brought more life into her life than she thought possible, he couldn't erase the twenty-eight years of nothingness before and after his birth. Nor should he, this was Emma's battle and Emma's demons and she wouldn't push that responsibility on her eleven-year-old son.

But she wished it wouldn't be so damn difficult to figure out by herself.

...

It wasn't a far walk. No, she had only locked her car and walked in the rain with her tattered, hole strewed umbrella for fifteen minutes before an older woman pulled off to the side and offered her a lift to a hotel just a few minutes away. Old women somewhat low on her mental list of killers, Emma had accepted, but by the time she crept up the steps to a hotel claiming itself to be Camelot, her legs were sore and her eyes were dangerously close to not opening on her next blink.

One from walking after a nasty fall three days prior trying to chase a skip, the second from listening to her travel companion talk proudly of her eleven kittens. In the back seat, she could hear a meow and the rattle as the feline shifted in its carrier, no doubt trying to support the cat lady.

She would be shaking cat hair out of her clothes for a good week no doubt.

After saying her thank you and have a goodnight obligation, she made her way up the gravel drive to the hotel. It wasn't majestic looking, nor did it appear to be recently remodeled, but it was a stone building, seven stories tall, the lights strung across the top proclaiming its name barely illuminating the dark brown roof. She thought it might have been a shade of yellow, but it was too dark to tell and she had no interest in soaking up the rain to figure it out.

Her policy? If it had a door and somewhere to lay down, preferably in a vertical position, though there had been instances where she didn't have such a luxury. This? With its large, clean windows, the well-manicured lawn, and the somewhat ominous but otherwise friendly looking lights? This was more than good enough; as a child, she would have killed for something as nice as this.

Despite how much she told herself that, a part of her had the uncomfortable feeling that she was being watched and couldn't relax.

She sighed, pulling her hair out of the collar of her jacket, squeezing out the excess water as best she could and stamping her feet on the pavement before she came inside. It did nothing to minimize her resemblance to a drowned rat, but it was better than nothing.

She got no further than off the welcome rug, which looked more like the type of mat they placed on the ground in front of the doors in supermarkets, before someone clicked their tongue in disapproval. After shooting said snooty guest a dark look, she looked around the lobby for the front desk, somewhat annoyed that it wasn't right in front of her when she wanted nothing more than to step into her room and sleep till the tow truck came to get her car tomorrow.

Her original assessment of the building was true, the inside was no more glamorous than the outside, but instead painted a rather boring shade of beige. There wasn't a tile flooring like in most places, but a somewhat elaborate looking carpet made of browns, blues, and yellows that seemed to hide the wet stains her shoes made on the carpet rather well. That's one point for them, she wouldn't break her neck from slipping at least. She thought the blackout curtains were a bit over the top though.

"Swan?"

She broke from her thoughts, turning on her heel to face the worker passing by her. "Yes, I-" She paused because nobody in the building knew her name. Or at least nobody in the building was supposed to know her name, not unless the party that seemed to occupy the right corner happened to contain an old foe.

It took her an embarrassingly long time to realize that the person who called her name wasn't, in fact, the man who worked there that was continuing past her, oblivious to her confusion, but the man who fit the description tall, dark, and handsome slumped against the couch to the right.

Not that she would ever tell him that that was what she called him. Killian Jones had an ego the size of this hotel, perhaps even this town, and she had no wish to increase it.

Then the rest of her brain caught up.

"Killian? What the hell are you doing here?"

"Visiting my brother across the pond, of course. My flight got in later than my anticipated plans and I elected to stay the night rather than drive," he replied, pushing himself to his feet. "Better question, luv, what are you doing here?" He walked around the couch to face her.

The back of his hair was fluffier than the rest from the way he was sitting, doing nothing but make is sex hair all the better and she bit her lip hard. She longed to run her fingers through it, an urge that increased the closer he got, till she had to ball her fist at her sides to keep from doing just that when he stopped right in front of her.

His knowledge of personal space was rather minimal when it came to her.

Probably because she never made a move to push him away or to move away. A dangerous move, no doubt, but generally not something she thought about until after the fact.

Oh, right, he asked a question.

"My car broke down."

"That explains the look of death about you," he said with more gentleness than she expected, looking her from head to toe without a trace of his usual eye twinkle. "I half didn't recognize you when you walked in till I saw the jacket. Not many people are quite so bold."

"I can't tell if that's a compliment or not," she commented, shifting on her feet, painfully aware of the fact that beneath her red leather jacket was a white t-shirt. She didn't cross her arms, not wanting to draw attention to that fact. Though he probably already knew considering he had examined in her not even a few minutes ago.

He laughed, "It is, I assure you. Much as I would love to match wits with you though, I imagine you're in dire need of a place to stay for the night?"

"Isn't that what most people do in a hotel?" When his eyebrows began to raise, a smirk growing, she held a hand up to ward off the onslaught of words that she knew were coming. "Yes, I'm sure you can think of better ways to spend your time, but the general populace just wants to rest their weary heads."

"You know me so well, Swan. Alas, all the rooms are booked for the night, sorry, I barely got my own through sheer luck and the fact that I had to take an expensive one. You're welcome to share the room with me though."

She closed her eyes for a moment, drawing in a breath of patience. It wasn't like him to take advantage of her distress to make a move, but she also wasn't surprised by much anymore. "Are you serious? Killian, it's a hotel in the middle of nowhere, there's no way all these rooms are taken, you've got to come up with more clever lines."

"None of my lines work on you, Swan. Well, they do bring a delightful look to your face, but they don't bring you swooning into my arms as I would prefer. So, yes, I'm being serious, use your superpower."

He waited patiently while she narrowed her eyes at him, eyes flicking over him. His clothes were a pair of comfortable looking black jeans and a plain button up shirt, half undone as was his usual style to show off his chest hair. His face had a look of amusement on it as he crossed his arms, waiting for her to pass judgment, but his fingers twitched as though he wanted to scratch behind his ear.

Not as arrogant as he liked to pretend, that was one of the things she liked about him and what made the rest of his obnoxious personality easier to handle.

He wasn't lying either.

Her eyes dropped from him, huffing under her breath. At least if he was lying, she would have somewhere to rest her head, but now it seemed she would be mooching off the hotel's couch until they kicked her out.

Killian gestured around the room, drawing her eyes to the number of people wandering around the lobby in various states of dress. It wasn't, as she thought earlier, because of a party at all. "Power company is doing work; they are shutting down electricity for the majority of the town in about an hour. The hotel is being spared so they've elected to have a discount and prey on the poor humans that are too afraid of the dark to stay home."

Emma didn't judge them, she would be somewhat frightened to stay home alone in the dark as well, but not so much that she would want to leave her home. With no power, that meant no alarm. With no power, that meant anybody could break inside while you were gone as she would have done if she was still a young, naive thief.

Actually, on second thought, maybe it was best for other people to stay away, to keep them away from any thief that was more violent than desperate.

He shifted his weight around, a mental battle going across his face briefly. When he faced her, his eyes were warm, a half-smile on his lips. "I wasn't joking or making a move, you're welcome to share the room with me. I doubt that good old Tom over there will be up for sharing the sofa." He tilted his head at an elderly man slumped over the couch that Killian had vacated, head slumped against one armrest and his legs slung over the other. If it wasn't for the rise and fall of his chest, his stillness would be chilling.

Close quarters with Killian Jones seemed like a bad idea.

Alternatively, she didn't want to hang around the lobby with a bunch of virtual strangers. She paced, but only moved briefly before her legs gave out on her, exhausted by the long walk and stiff from standing, and she caught onto his arm before she could become great friends with the floor.

He grunted, but stayed steady without offering her any help, perhaps knowing by the scowl on her face that she wouldn't have accepted it.

Accepting his offer to share a room was about the limit to good deeds Emma could handle without getting the urge to flee.

She sighed, releasing his sleeve after holding it a few moments too long. "Do you have two beds? I'll split the bill with you."

He frowned, wanting to argue, before shaking his head and offering his arm to lead her to the elevator.

...

The elevator took an achingly long time to get to his level, seeming to groan, grumble, and overall protest their presence as it took them from the lobby to the fifth floor. When they stepped off, she was relieved to not need it again till it was time to leave.

The hallway was long and thin, barely enough room for them to maneuver side-by-side, let alone with any luggage that neither thankfully had, and seemed to have a look of it better fitting the decade prior with its ugly, yellowing wallpaper. It had an alarming number of shadows that made her skin crawl, like every other hallway they passed was completely dark.

"What's that?" She questioned, pointing at a metal door at the end of the hallway, a contrast to the dark wood of all the bedroom doors.

"The staircase to the next floor."

"But… the stairs were that way?"

"Aye, I found it confusing as well. Seems like if you come up the stairs, you've got to walk across the entire bloody buildings to reach the next set. The architect must be a fan of exercise." He laughed, shaking his head.

She wrinkled her nose at the idea, grateful for the invention of elevators. Active though she may be, she had no intention of putting in that much effort.

They walked in silence for a long moment, each second passing more uncomfortable than the next. Not because they weren't speaking, but because Emma had the oddest feeling that she could hear whispering just out of range, too low to hear entirely yet too loud to ignore completely. Like white noise or static.

Yeah, that sounded right, more like a buzz than a whisper.

He paused outside one of the doors, looking confused. "Is this it?" She asked as he frowned, the hand in his pocket lifting as though to knock on the door, the other staying firmly in her grasp. She hadn't quite realized the grip she had on him till then, too comfortable to be friendly, and released him.

That jostled him out of his thoughts. He dropped his hand, shaking his head. "No, sorry, I just thought I heard something. Guess the idea of being in a town plunged in darkness and most likely facing an increase in petty theft was more than even I could handle?"

Her lips twitched. "I'll protect you, don't worry."

"How kind," he replied, grinning, resuming to walk and rubbing the arm she had been holding with a wince. She didn't comment about it, noticing that his movements lingered near his wrist and prosthetic more than the elbow that she held. "I'm more frightened of any ghosts that decide tonight's the night to make an appearance though."

"There's no such things as ghosts."

"You know, the one who says that is generally the first to die."

"Generally the first to be afraid is the one who gets to live in the tension and fear the longest only to die brutally, alone, while everyone else thinks that they were the killer."

"This is more like a horror movie, not a crime show! The only killers are ghosts," he argued, seemingly unfazed by the idea. She snorted, shaking her head at him as they stopped in front of another door.

The first time he tried to unlock the door, it didn't work, the light flashing green, but the handle refusing to budge. He tried again with the same results, but on the third time, he finally got it open with an exasperated sigh. He held it for her, grinning as she brushed close by him to enter the room. "Make yourself at home, Swan."

"I'll do my best," she said dryly, sliding her jacket off, wincing as her hair caught on the slipper and pausing to untangle it. She tossed it over a chair, a trickle of water slipping down her collar and she lifted her hair before it could do anymore damage to her shirt. "I'm going to shower."

He nodded, tossing his suitcase onto the bed near the wall. The bed was, perhaps, a queen with a pale blue-yellow comforter and plain white pillows, quite out of place when paired with the light green walls. Whatever the theme was, it was lost on her.

"Aye, probably best. You'll catch a cold otherwise and somehow I think Davey will blame me. Here, take these," he said, digging out a pair of folded, faded grey sweats and a plain, white long sleeved shirt.

She caught the clothes, holding them away from her wet clothes. Confused, she asked, "What, why?"

He tossed a pair of sleeping clothes for himself onto the bed next to his suitcase and then threw the whole thing into the closet, settling back on the bed, raising his eyebrow at her. "Are you proposing that you sleep in the nude, luv? I won't object if that's your wish…" He trailed off, his lips quirking up into a leering grin as he looked her over.

His eyes lingered briefly on her breasts, the white t-shirt having gone seen through, the short journey to the room doing nothing to dry it. He looked up at her again quickly, his grin faltering only a little bit, his ears turning the slightest bit red.

A laugh bubbled up against her will at his embarrassment. "In your dreams," she shot back, turning on her heel and heading into the bathroom.

She barely closed the door before she heard his response: "Always, Swan."

...

When she got out, he was flicking through channels on the television, one arm tucked behind his head. From the look of his hair, he had spent a while running his hands through it, tugging on the ends, leaving it as an almost comical mess. She thought this was perhaps what his hair would look like the morning after, but pushed the thought away quickly, looking away from him and wrapping her hair up again.

"Better now?" He didn't look up from the television, his brow furrowing at an infomercial.

"Yeah…" She shifted on her feet, biting her lip. He made a rather attractive picture just lounging on the bed, not a care in the world, far more gorgeous than he would be normally. Perhaps because his attractiveness before was something almost unreal, expected now after months of knowing him, but unreal nonetheless.

This was different – it was messy hair, untrimmed scruff, tired eyes, wrinkled clothes, and the unmistakable look of someone who had spent a while in the car or, in his case, on an airplane.

It was human, it was real, and it made Emma very uncomfortable. More because it brought something warm and foreign rising in her chest, not quite attraction, but with the same type of zing to it.

She cleared her throat. "Um, thank you, by the way. For letting me bum off you for the night."

He looked at her then, tilting his head. "Aye, lass, anytime. You know I can't get enough of your company."

"You don't know how to be serious, do you?"

"Who said I was joking?" He said, offended, sitting up in the bed. "Contrary to what you believe, we are friends. It's not unusual for them to do acts of kindness for each other, yes?"

"We're not friends," she said stubbornly, continuing the argument they had been having for months. Mary Margaret called it the will they, won't they syndrome. Emma said she was full of it. "We just happen to be acquaintances."

His eyes dimmed slightly, but in true Killian fashion, he covered it with a cheeky wink and argued with his typical answer: "We're alone, it's alright, you don't have to keep pretending."

She walked to her bed, slumping down on the sheets. "I'm not pretending," she retorted, the usual ending to their argument. Generally, someone else would cut in, or Henry would arrive, or his brother would call and they would end in a stalemate where neither won yet neither lost.

Here though, with nobody in the room except for them, there was nothing to keep him from replying.

"Aye, you are. You don't want to admit that we're friends because you're afraid of what will happen if things change, that things could be more than just this and more than just that, and thus it's easier to pretend we're nothing at all. Less of a risk that way, nobody gets their heartbroken if we're nothing, right?"

He stopped suddenly, his face paling and his mouth closing as though he hadn't expected all the words to come tumbling out until it was too late to stop them and the bitter longing laced in them.

She stared, wide eyed and stunned, as he got to his feet, muttering an apology and disappearing into the bathroom. A moment later, the shower started and she settled back against the headboard for a long moment, feeling as though she had missed a few very important pages.

Once the water shut off, Emma crawled beneath the covers of her bed and feigned sleep, unable to confront him and his words when her own thoughts were confused. She felt guilty about it, especially when he sighed and crawled into his own bed, a peek at him showing her a glimpse of the conflict that played across his face, but then she began to think maybe he was right, maybe—

And then she would be sucked right back into a vicious cycle of a voice screaming no while another whispered yes, an answer to a question that Emma hadn't yet voiced, inwardly or out.

When his eyes finally closed, his breathing even, she murmured, "Goodnight, Killian." Even in his sleep, he smiled sleepily at the ceiling as though it were her.

While he lapsed into an easy slumber, Emma found that she couldn't do the same, caught by his every movement. He snored some, little puffs that startled her occasionally, his brows furrowing every few seconds, but other than that, he was perfectly still. His relaxed smile though, that was the thing that caught her attention. He didn't look like that when he was awake, not quite so unguarded.

There was something strangely intimate about watching him sleep though and she sat up to flip her pillow over, settling back down with her back to him. If she couldn't see his face then she couldn't stare at it, she couldn't linger on it. She wasn't even sure why she bothered thinking about him either, she had spent much more time with him than this, in much closer quarters too whenever he dropped into the booth beside her at Granny's.

Sharing a hotel room wasn't that different.

So, okay, maybe she was wearing his clothes while hers dried in the bathroom and maybe she had been transfixed by his voice when he spoke, but none of that wasn't out of the realm of normal. Friend shared clothes all the time. Friends shared stories, too. Such was the way of life.

Friends don't deny being friends though. Not after so long of knowing each other, but Emma could and would have gone on, her denial so strong that she didn't even think there was another reason for her reluctance. Attraction crackled between them, always had, but there was a certain amount of fondness now that Emma had either pointedly ignored or never noticed.

Killian had seen it though. Not recently either, his words less of a genuine shock for him to hear and more of an unwelcome surprise, like a buried emotion pushed to the surface in a moment of weakness. It would be easy to blame the tiredness, she knew, but a part of her couldn't accept it now that he had put it into words.

Was she afraid?

Maybe.

Of what?

She shifted onto her back, looking at the ceiling for answers, her toes wiggling in the warm blankets for a cold spot amongst the stifling heat, unwilling to admit that she knew the question and the answer.

As she started to slip into sleep, she missed the way the television flickered to static and then shut off entirely.


	2. two

**Thank you to my friend Heather for being a dear and doing a last minute beta job! Another thank you to the review/favorites/follows! Third chapter up in a few days, likely around Sunday.**

* * *

 **Two**

"HELP!" A voice shrieked, sounding far away and right beside her ear at the same time. She shot up in her bed, the sheets tangled around her legs, straining to make sense of the dark room and the ringing in her ears. What was that? It was gone now, just an eerie silence instead; all the lights in the room were off, even the one in the bathroom that Killian had left on. She couldn't tell what time it was, the clock on the nightstand blank, but it didn't feel as though she had slept for long.

"Bloody hell, what was that?" Killian complained, bringing her back to the presence. She blinked, wiping the sleep from her eyes, to see him standing between their two beds, his back facing her as he stood between her and the door, shoulders tense.

Had he tried to protect her?

It was endearing, but Emma would have to nip that in the bud. After all, she was the bail bonds person and while that didn't quite match up to his military background, she hadn't spent the last five years taking care of flowers.

She didn't need a knight in shining armor.

"Swan?" He said, worried as she blinked, seeing him crouched beside her bed, a furrow to his brows. "Alright there?"

"I'm fine," she replied, untangling her legs and swinging out of bed. "Did you hear…?"

He grinned faintly. "The sound of a banshee being frightened? Indeed, I did, I suppose someone had to take advantage of the atmosphere."

"What atmosphere?"

"Just the one where we're in a hotel with all the lights out in the middle of nowhere. I said earlier that this was prime haunting material, perhaps I should team up with whoever seems to agree with me."

"Yeah, you'll be a riot."

"I thought so too. Alas, I shan't leave a woman in need."

"I'm in need of something to hit you with and that's it."

"Allow me to help you then. I am, after all, a gentleman." He got to his feet and she thought that was the end of it; that he was going to go to bed and they would pretend it never happened, that the creepy scream was just somebody being an asshole, but he walked over to a small fridge in the corner, his body hiding whatever he was grabbing.

He walked back over to her, his hand behind his back until he was right in front of her. "One weapon, as promised," he said pompously, handing her a banana as though it were Excalibur. "Go on, take it, you said you needed it."

"Haha, so funny," she deadpanned, taking it from him and waving it threateningly. Rather than hit him - potentially wasting what was one of her favorite fruits and would be great for breakfast - she set it on the nightstand, glowering as he grinned. For a moment, they both forgot the conversation from a few hours' prior, content to fall back into their banter. He stared at her with such tenderness that she had to fight the urge to look away, and then it all came back.

Her shifting must have reminded him because he looked away, suddenly unreadable as he headed back to his bed. She opened her mouth, not sure what to say, but also feeling like she had to say something, when a shadow flickered to life on the wall. There was no light except from the moon, drifting through the small gap in the curtains, and nothing in the room made such a shape.

Nothing in the room moved like that, crawling down the ceiling and towards the floor, growing taller and taller, not possibly real and yet it couldn't be a figment of her imagination. It was nothing more substantial than darkness, but the longer she stared, the more defined it grew, a shadow that grew an arm, that grew a hand.

Sharp, pointing fingers appeared and her breath came out in a stuttered whoosh, eyes widening. Killian turned, bewildered by her wide-eyed expression and the shadow disappeared as suddenly as it appeared.

"Did… you see that?" She whispered, a chill working its way down her spine.

He didn't reply.

For a long moment, the room was absolutely still, neither of them moving an inch, not even daring to breathe despite the way their lungs protested for air. When the shadow didn't appear again, she swallowed, shaking her head roughly and shooting him a dark look.

"This is your fault, talking about ghosts before we went to bed, no wonder we're both seeing things," she said sourly, rubbing her eyes. Clearly she needed more sleep – and to not listen to him and his talk of ghosts.

He didn't move, still staring at the place they both saw the figure, his eyes unreadable and unfocused.

"Killian?"

Still, he didn't move. Was he even breathing? She stood up warily, hand resting on his back, the muscles tight beneath her touch. She pushed up on her toes to peer back at the wall. Nothing was there, not even their own shadows appeared in the darkness. She pressed her hand harder against his back, dropping back down onto her feet, tugging on his arm to pull him back towards his own bed. Only then did he unfreeze, his breath coming out shaky.

"Killian?"

"Sorry, lass. Just…bloody hell, did we really see that?" He murmured, sinking down onto his bed, his elbows resting on his knees.

Rather than follow him and sit beside him, maybe even lean her head at his shoulder like a part of her was nudging her to do despite the circumstances, she stood right in front of him, crossing her arms stubbornly. "It was nothing, just a trick of the light. Er…the moonlight."

He held his palm against his eyes, so hard that even she winced internally. She didn't relax her stance, though the feeling of wanting to be close grew stronger, more persistent and annoying. Kind of like him, she thought. "I don't believe so. I've never seen a shadow do that."

"There's no such thing as ghosts," she said sharply, too loud in the dark room. He dropped his hand, looking up at her

"'There are more things in heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'"

"Don't quote Shakespeare at me, Killian. This isn't a ghost, don't be ridiculous."

He shook his head, exasperated. "Do you find it to be a coincidence that we both heard someone scream and then, not even ten minutes later, we both happen to witness an apparition?" He demanded, standing up so suddenly that she had to step back a fraction to keep them from colliding with each other. Still, they stood chest to chest, her arms the only barrier between them; indeed, she could feel the fabric of his shirt brush against her with every breath.

"I think we heard somebody talking and it spooked us awake and we're sleep deprived," she said, keeping to the matter at hand rather than the smell of his body wash or the blue of his eyes. She was capable of thinking without her libido getting in the way, thank you very much.

The way he studied her after she was done speaking made her more uncomfortable than anything else that had happened tonight, just short of his startling confession earlier. As though he didn't need to listen to the words she verbalized because the real facts were written across her face, an open book for him to pursue at his convenience. She didn't back down, trying to school her features, but her brows must have furrowed because he blinked, looking away from her.

An uncomfortable silence fell. During which, he didn't move away from her, thinking very hard about something. It occurred to her then that a part of him was afraid, that his eyes hadn't once flickered to where the shadow had been, that his hands were clenched by his side, the littlest tremor there, unnoticeable if they weren't standing so close and each tiny movement brushed against her sides.

Despite this, he stood between the shadow and her anyway. Real or not, he was trying to protect her.

"Well, perhaps you're right and this is just the product of two souls in desperate need of rest, but I shall investigate nonetheless. The shadow might have been a sham, but that scream was not," he said quickly, scratching behind his ear. Sensing her argument, he added, "Let's just go make sure nobody needs help."

She deflated at that, chewing on her lip, before nodding her head. If he questioned why she grabbed the banana, she wouldn't have answered. It was instinct to grab something, everything else in the room being bolted down in some form, and holding something in her palms brought comfort. Not because she was scared of ghosts or something, certainly not, but because Killian's words were spooking her.

She followed him, noticing that he once more placed himself between her and the wall, as though the shadow would reach through the darkness, invisible to both their eyes, and suck her into a phantom realm. Ridiculous, honestly, but she was grateful when they passed that part of the room and a cold chill settled over their shoulders. Like they had walked passed an air vent on full blast. The feeling didn't dissipate until they were standing in the hallway.

 _The hallway is scarier than the room_ , she thought as Killian propped the door open, neither of them sure if the door would work without the electricity on. She didn't relish the idea of anybody able to poke around through their things, a part of her commending the person for a creative con, but she didn't wish to hang around in the hallway either. Without any lights on, she could hardly see anything, not the numbers on the door across from her, the pattern on the carpet, or the faded wallpaper. The only clear thing she could see was the little table at the end of the hallway and the fluttering curtains, where an occasional flash of moonlight beamed through the gaps when the fabric moved just right.

"Next time, we bring flashlights," she told him, the banana hanging uselessly in her hands. It didn't offer any comfort now.

He hummed, far more relaxed than she expected him to be given his actual fear back in the room. "Plan on navigating a hotel in the dark again soon, luv?"

"Hardly," she scoffed, unable to think of a wittier reply when she was cold and _maybe_ a tiny bit afraid of the absolute darkness in front of them. "Where are we supposed to start looking, Sherlock? In case you didn't tell, this hotel is kind of big." She didn't point out that they would have difficulty getting into a room if the scream originated from inside a room.

Could these doors be kicked in? Possibly, but she would need a damn good reason. The move to Storybrooke would take enough out of her savings and she hadn't added hotel damages to her budget, hadn't thought that it would be needed, if she was honest.

"My dear Watson, surely— "

" _HELP_!"

She clapped a hand over her mouth, supporting him when he stumbled back a step right into her. They teetered for just a moment, shaken by a scream so loud that it made Emma's ears ring long after it stopped. So loud that it echoed down the hallway, so loud that she didn't know what direction it came from, but of one thing she was certain: that was real.

And it hadn't come from this level.

"You go to the floor above us, I'll go to the one below," she ordered, pushing him towards the stairway leading up and turning on her heel to sprint for the other stairway leading down, cursing the architect for making such a bizarre building.

"Swan, wait!"

She didn't hear him.

…

The banana didn't help her much, but Emma still held it aloft like a gun as she darted into the stairway. Her eyes were adjusting to the lack of light and she could make everything out more clearly, able to take the steps two at a time, only slipping once and catching herself before she could go tumbling down to the basement. She paused outside the door that would open up to the fourth floor, breathing heavily, knee screaming in protest.

Her doctor was going to kill her.

Well, if the psychopath torturing innocent people in the building didn't do that first. As if her thoughts provoked whoever was hurting people, she heard another shout, male this time, that seemed to come from right on the other side of the room. _Now or never, Emma._

She pushed the door open –

– and screamed as a figure stood on the other side. It was faceless and much taller than her, even hunched over it appeared to brush against the ceiling, not entirely solid as she could see the hallway on the other side of it as though looking through foggy glass.

It lurched forward, uncoordinated, long fingered hands reaching for her throat.

She stepped back, throat dry and rough, allowing no scream to make its way out of her mouth. It followed her, oozing passed the threshold, and a choked gasp that came from her. _Oh, God, this is really happening!_

Closer, closer it crept. Further she pulled away until her back bumped against the protective railing on the stairway. She felt the cold through her shirt and with the chill came clarity. And a plan. A stupid one, but better than letting her soul get sucked out or whatever this thing planned to do.

The creature, the ghost, whatever it may be, came closer, leaning over her as she shrank back. The closer it came, the harder it became to think, her thoughts seeming to drift away before she could latch onto them. So slow, why was everything so slow?

The railing was no longer cool, but burning hot, her shirt sticking to her back as she arched away from its touched. Its hand touched her chest, just above her heart, in the lightest of brushes, and it was like fire lit on her skin, not pleasant but roaring and burning and white hot agony.

She screamed, lurching away, swinging the banana hard against the wrist reaching for her. With a hiss, the creature's wrist separated from the rest of him, hand hovering uselessly in front of her face. She and the thing stared, the air thick with tension, when the wrist snapped back into place as though nothing had ever happened.

It reached again, vibrating with pent up rage, so close to touching her that she felt the heat, recalled the pain. But the pain brought back her thoughts, brought back her plan, and Emma ducked around it, throwing herself into the door as the creature stilled, surprised. The room thickened, like all the air was being taken from it and left behind was something heavy, something menacing.

She threw the door open as it recovered from its shock.

She slammed the door closed before it could come through.

She ran before she could see if that would stop it.

…

 _This can't be happening. I've lost my fucking mind._ She thought, scrambling up the stairway, unsure of where Killian could be, but suddenly so desperate to find him that every beat of her heart seemed to be his name on repeat. He would know what to do, one part of her said. She had to save him, another part pointed out. She had to warn him, the entirety of her agreed.

Rather than go to their floor, she bypassed it and continued onto the next one, the one she knew he would have gone. By the time she got up the two flights of stairs, she was limping, but worse than that was the sting on her chest where it had touched, the one that made it hurt to breathe too deeply. It felt like a brand and like a promise that the thing would be back.

Perhaps that was the shock talking. Perhaps it was the fear.

Somebody grabbed her shoulder, calling her name. Her blood rushed in her ears, her breaths coming in stuttering gasps, but she whirled around, not screaming but nearly, raising her banana over her head like a weapon, the feel of it holding her together.

Killian made an odd yelping noise, holding his hand up in defense, catching her wrist before she could break the banana over his skull. She struggled, just for a moment, until she heard his words. "Swan! Bloody hell, I don't need any more potassium in my diet, thank you!"

"Killian?" She gasped, slumping into his grip. He frowned down at her, taking the banana from her limp fingers, brushing his hand over her cheek.

"Swan, why are you shaking?"

Was she? She couldn't tell, she just knew that her heart wasn't quite beating at a normal, calm pace yet.

"I… You…" Emma fumbled over her words, not quite sure how to say that he was right. His hands were warm, pleasantly so, a relief after the heat of the creature and the chill of her shock, and she waited for a long moment, closing her eyes, relaxing into his grip. Just a second wouldn't hurt.

Her chest burned as if to remind her of why a second could very much hurt. Hurt her and, just as important, hurt him. She didn't know how she knew, but she just did. The brand, it would lead that thing right to her and right to him if he happened to be with her.

There was only one solution.

"What are you doing?" She demanded, lurching away from his grip.

Startled, it took him a moment to respond, his hands dropping slowly to his sides. "Well, lass, seeing as you took our only weapon, I thought it prudent that we stick together. Besides, haven't you seen any horror movies? Separating ends in death," he said, frowning, something like hurt flickering across his features.

She felt bad about it, considering that wasn't what she was trying to say, but a much bigger part of her couldn't help fighting with him either. "For all I know, you could be the one behind all this as a ruse to kill me."

"This is a horror movie, not some crime show!"

"There's no such thing as ghosts!" Was it a ghost? Was it a monster? Was she crazy?

She wasn't surprised to find that he had a response to that. Did he have to be so stubborn? "Tell that to the bruises on my arse when something pushed me and I nearly fell down the stairs again!"

"Aw, poor baby, do you want me to kiss it better too?" She retorted, biting her lip as soon as she was done because this was so not the time to be flirting with him.

"If you insist, I won't stop you," he replied, eyebrows shooting up.

She scoffed. "Please, you couldn't handle it."

"Perhaps you're the one who couldn't handle it."

She wasn't sure what made her think this was a good time or that this was a good idea at all, but she bunched her hands into the collar of his shirt, jerking him to her, pressing her lips to his in a hungry, desperate kiss. His hand coiled into her hair after a second hesitation, drawing her closer, sighing against her lips like this was all he had ever wanted.

Perhaps it was too, he had hinted earlier at his feelings, unwillingly as it might have been, in his desperation to at least be her friend if he could be nothing else. Perhaps she wanted it too, the little protestor inside her head falling silent as he broke back for air before drawing her in again, his lips warm and soft against hers, the kiss turning gentle.

Her fingers tightened on his shirt, heart fluttering and warmth building in her chest. Was this was kissing was like? She had only known the messiness of teenagers and then the roughness of a one-night stand, nothing that made her toes curl or brought a little smile to her face or made her cheeks heat. She broke the kiss slowly, her forehead leaning against his, their breaths mingling together in the small space between them.

"That was— "

"Mm," she agreed, closing her eyes, basking in the moment. It was inappropriate for the circumstances, for the thing after her, after them, and it was a bad idea in general, too many wounds from other people keeping them apart, but… She would enjoy it.

Just for one moment.

One moment too long.

She didn't hear it or see it, but she felt the tension in Killian's embrace and the brand on her chest burned like it was fresh and new. She gasped for air, her forehead dropping to his collar, waiting for the feeling to pass, but it didn't, it only grew till it was nearly crippling, like the brand was bringing all old pains to the surface, no matter how old they were.

"Bloody hell," he breathed, recovering far quicker than she had the first time, taking two large steps back without releasing her. "Is that-?"

"Nothing good," she said, the distance bringing some relief. Not enough to ease the ache completely, but enough that she didn't feel as though waves upon waves were crashing over her. She lifted her head, chancing a look over her shoulder, only feel a slight twinge as she does so. The creature didn't move closer to them; in fact, it appeared to be watching them, despite its lack of a face or any indistinguishable mark.

Like its intentions were something written in the air for them to sense.

Somehow not being able to know for sure was worse than it not having a face.

"Go, move, hurry up," she murmured, unsure of why she was speaking quietly when it would do them no good. The silence around them was suffocating and her whisper seemed to carry. Without looking at it, she could sense amusement and her stomach dropped, her fingers once more fisted around his collar.

He wasn't looking at her, staring over her shoulder with something like awe, his eyes foggy. His grip loosened on her waist. "Killian, come on," she demanded, planting herself in front of him when he made a move to leave her, her panic rising when he tried to get passed her anyway. "Killian!" His eyes drifted down to hers briefly, but no recognition showed, like she was just some obstacle rather than his something more.

She shoved his chest once, pushing him backwards with all her might. He stumbled back, falling on his ass as the creature's fingers brushed so close to her cheeks that her heart lurched, reaching for him and retreating back when Killian fell out of range. She whirled around, stepping back as far as she could without cowering behind him, afraid that he would make a grab for him again.

"Whatever you're doing, knock it off and leave him alone! What the hell do you even want?" She demanded, hands planting on her hips, trying for bravado and sounding more like a preteen that hadn't yet hit puberty. Perhaps it wouldn't notice that.

 _It has no lips, it can't speak,_ she told herself. A menacing chuckle hit her ears, grating and high-pitched, her ears burning the longer it continued. The creature shook and she realized the noise might have been coming from the walls, echoing off the tacky wallpaper, but it came from this thing, whatever it may be.

"Swan?" Between one blink and the next, the creature was gone, leaving behind a lingering laugh. "Why am I on the floor? What the bloody hell was that? No, better question, where did it go?"

Rather than reply appropriately, Emma burst out. "We need to go; we need to… just leave. My resume doesn't cover ghosts, or demons, or, or… whatever that was!" She ranted, pacing, scratching her neck. Her nails pricked against the aching skin, but she didn't look at it, afraid of what she would see. Would the skin be raised like a scar? Would it look like the brand she imagined or just a scratch?

He scrambled to his feet, shaken and pale, but not like somebody that was about to go sprinting after that thing in the next few seconds. She was thankful for that because now that the thing was gone, the room seemed less oppressive, less like it was pressing down on her shoulders, and she found that her head ached fiercely without the adrenaline to keep it away. If he did make a run for it, she didn't think she would be able to stop him.

Thankfully, he didn't. Less thankfully, he caught her wrist as she reached for her chest again, eyes alighting on the spot where it had touched her, his brows shooting up. "What happened?"

"Killian, can we just go?" She waved him off impatiently.

"In a minute!"

"You want to stand around for the fucking ghost to come eat us again?"

"Would you just let me look at it?" He said, exasperated and oddly calm for someone who had just seen what they had. More gently, surprisingly so, he added, "Please."

She stilled, shoulders slumping. Carefully, he tilted her chin up, frowning, studying her so intently that she swore he could see her heart thumping in her chest, could see the tremble in her fingers. The urge to run was worse than ever, not because of him and his kiss, she hadn't yet had the time to process that, but because a very real fear was squirming its way through the bravado and the adrenaline. Only his hand on her chin, more soothing than it had any right to be, kept her from bolting.

"I don't generally have people frowning when they look at my chest," she joked weakly, unable to stand the silence for a second longer.

Killian snorted. It was a ridiculous noise, but oddly endearing. "No, I imagine they don't, but we'll come back to that later, lass," he promised, thumbing the dimple in her chin before taking a step away from her. "I think it'll be fine, but I don't relish leaving it unattended for much longer unless you want a nasty scar."

"Henry will delight in this story," she muttered, lightly touching the mark, before shaking her head roughly. "Stop distracting me! We need to leave before that… that thing comes back!" Without conscious thought, Emma grabbed his wrist, jerking him around to the staircase that lead down, dragging him along with her.


	3. three

**Thanks for the kind reviews!**

* * *

 **Three**

The route down to the lobby was worse than the running that Emma had done to reach him, her knee in agony by the time they reached the third floor. When she got settled in Storybrooke, she was going to start running again, knee pain be damned, because she was clearly out of shape.

With that thought, she stopped in the middle of the stairway chest heaving, knee throbbing. While a part of her was frightened of being close to the area that the fucking boogeyman had accosted her the first time, the other part was prepared to release the pent up rage and pain on it, regardless of the consequences.

"What is this place?" She moaned, wiggling her toes as though it would help ease the pain. It didn't.

"Not entirely sure, but I imagine it's called a hotel."

"Did you even read the Yelp reviews?" She complained.

"Budge up, Swan, we haven't got time to sit around."

"Oh, now you're in a hurry?"

"Indeed, come on," he said, looping her arm around his shoulder and wrapping his own around her waist, supporting her bad side and urging her down the stairs. They moved a bit quicker, but the process was still slow and treacherous, both of them swaying dangerously when one foot or another misses a step, and she gritted her teeth against the ache as they started a speed walk across the hallway to the next set of stairs.

As they reached the second floor landing, a door behind them slammed, the shake seeming to rattle down the walls to them. She didn't scream, nor did he, but they both jumped, hearts beating quicker. "Alright, Swan, try not to throw us off balance," he said suddenly, voice hoarse.

"What are you— Oh!" She bit off her exclamation as he lifted her up bridal style, one arm tucked under her knees and the other on her back. She grabbed his shoulders for balance, quite sure that he wouldn't be able to support her weight and they would both go crashing down the stairs in a grisly, horrific death only slightly better than being eaten by ghosts.

No such thing happened. Instead, he walked down the steps quickly and efficiently, leaning back to compensate for the extra weight on his front, eyes narrowed in concentration as he did his best to find the next step. She wanted to demand that he put her down, but the relief of being off her feet was worth the hit to her pride and this was quicker than him supporting her hobble down the steps.

All protest flew away as the mark on her chest burned fiercely. "It's close," she whispered into his shoulder. That's what the mark did, right? The closer that thing got, the worse the pain became. At least, that's what it seemed like earlier. Despite having no reason to believe her, he nodded grimly and tightened his grip, picking up the pace.

"Almost there," he muttered as she grimaced, jumping down the last few steps rather than run it. Only instinct made her look over his shoulder again.

The creature stood at the top of the stairwell, looking like a shadow on a shadow, growing in shape before her eyes. It had long, gangly limbs and a wide, empty face, void of a mouth or a nose or eyes, but no longer translucent, more like a thick, evil ooze.

"Killian!" She didn't bother with a whisper as the creature seemed to stretch, moving to them without ever touching the ground, unaffected by gravity or time.

Seconds later, they burst through the doors and into the lobby.

Emma reached over his shoulder, pointedly not looking into the shadows on the stairs, afraid of what she would see, and slammed the door shut with all her strength, cutting off the darkness that reached for her wrist.

Neither their abrupt entrance nor the bang of the door drew a crowd of worried guests or annoyed employees; the lobby was empty, not a soul on the couches nor behind the desk. The room was bathed in moonlight, shining through large glass windows, more lit up than any other area of the hotel.

It should have been teeming with activity. It should have been filled with annoyed guests complaining about the screaming, or sleepy concierges who were stuck with the night shift that didn't know of the horror lurking on the floors above them, or even people trying to bum off the couches because they were too afraid to be home. She had criticized them earlier, but Emma would have given just about anything to see somebody, anybody, that could explain what the hell was going on.

"It was right behind us," she murmured as he set her on her feet. His eyes were wide, tracing over her face and her hands and her neck, before swallowing with great effort. He touched her cheek briefly with the pads of his fingers before letting his hand drop to his side, looking around the empty lobby with great interest.

Coming to the same conclusion as her, he asked, "Where's everybody gone?"

"If they were smart, they left a while ago."

"Somehow, I don't think that's what happened."

"Yeah, well, I'm going to pretend that's exactly what happened until morning time." She jerked her thumb over her shoulder to indicate the door, hobbling over to it while he examined the room, lifting up a spare pillow on one of the couches as though a person would be hiding underneath.

She lingered at a window. Outside didn't look any better with its empty parking lot, darkened street lights, and ominously swaying trees, but she hoped, prayed really, that the creature couldn't navigate beyond the boundaries of this hotel. _Yeah, I don't think I'm that lucky_ , she thought with a grimace, finger tips pressed against the chilled glass window as she shuffled over to the door. She grabbed the handles and—

The door didn't budge.

She swore.

Killian swore louder as the door from the stairwell burst open, the force so strong that it banged against the wall.

She whirled around. The creature didn't waste time attempting to scare them, not like before, it swelled like a bottle about to pop.

It leapt, not at her, but at Killian, long spindly arms upraised. "Killian!" She yelled in warning, like the speed of her words could do anything. She couldn't make out anything, but she had the eerie impression that it's claws were coming out and her breath froze in her chest, legs all at once like jelly threatening to collapse and like anchors refusing to move.

Stupidly, bravely, against the protesting of her brain and the ache of her legs and the sound of heart beating in her ears, she jumped in between them, arms spread wide as though it would somehow make everything end with her.

The creature didn't hesitate, didn't seem to care about the difference between the two lives it could steal, and she felt like her flesh would drop off her bones the closer it came, so slow that she could already be dead and she wouldn't even know. Then, she saw it: the creature's hand sputtered before it could reach her chest, the thin strips of its finger curling backwards grotesquely.

It tried to reach again, hissing before it could make contact, pale moonlight shining on its nonexistent flesh, burning what it touched. With a screeching cry, the creature disappeared completely, a black mass sinking into the floor.

The air returned to her lungs with a whoosh, the world returning to normal speed between blinks, but she couldn't tear eyes from the spot that it stood. Her legs crumbled under her, landing hard on her knees.

"Emma! Emma, please, say something," he pleaded, voice coming from far away.

She blinked, laying back on the floor for a moment, hands pressing against her face. He leaned over her, she could feel him kneeling beside her, stroking her hair and her hands, coaxing them away from her face. He let out an audible breath when she let him, his fingers tightening around hers, his prosthetic brushing the hair away from her face clumsily.

"Emma!" She squinted at him for a moment before dragging herself upright as he supported her back.

"I'm okay, it's okay," she assured him, eyes flickering around the empty lobby for any sign of the monster. She dragged her eyes back to him when his hand caught hers again, breath catching at his wide, worried filled eyes.

"Why did you do that?" He demanded angrily.

She thought that to be a stupid question.

"Should I have let you die?" she murmured quietly. Not with the fire as most her retorts would be, but something soft and strange and uncomfortable in the way that it came so easily. Her eyes flicking away from his, afraid of what she would see. It could be brushed off as human decency, but it was a question she hadn't based to anyone in a long, long time.

He let out a long exhale, recognizing the meaning behind her words, and drew her into the circle of his arms. For a moment, she tensed, before melting into his embrace, her nose pressed into his neck and her fingers curling around the lapels of his jacket. He brushed his hand down her back, murmuring into her hair, voice so low she could barely hear: "Gods, lass, don't scare me like that ever again. I thought you were going to _die_. How did you...?"

She knew what he was asking. How did she scare the shadow off?

Truthfully, she didn't know. It had reached for her, the air so thick that she knew it had meant to do nothing except kill her, and then before it could, it suddenly _couldn'_ t. She wracked her brain for how, replying the scene over in her mind, but all she could see in her head was the way its fingers twisted away from her like a gust of wind had blown it away and the way it seemed to burn when—

"The light." She frowned. "It was the light. It didn't…" It had been pissed at her attack with the banana, not from a place of pain, but because she had the gall to fight back. This time? It had screeched with pain, a noise like thunder, and vanished.

"Is that why the power is out?" He stared down at her for a long moment before climbing to his feet and heading to the door. The handle jiggled, but didn't budge any more than it had for her. "Well, there goes my first plan, what's yours?"

She glared, climbing to her feet. He hurried back over to her, offering her a hand up that she reluctantly accepted. "That was your brilliant plan? Go outside?"

"Would you prefer to break the windows?" He supplied helpfully, releasing her. "I figured you wanted to get out without dying or getting arrested for vandalism when they don't believe the whole ghost shtick." For being in a deadly situation less than five minutes ago, he was remarkably at ease, bantering with her like they were sitting at Granny's rather than in an empty, dreary, and apparently haunted hotel.

"Is that even a ghost?" She asked skeptically. It certainly wasn't Casper the friendly ghost, maybe Casper's evil cousin Hesper.

"Do I look like a medium?"

"You said you watched horror movies!"

"Darling, everyone watches horror movies except for you!"

"I've seen enough horror without seeing the jump scares, thanks." He opened up his mouth, geared for another response, but she raised a hand, waving it off. "We're getting off topic. We need a new plan, one that doesn't involve breaking our way out of here, I could pick the lock— "

She stopped, patting her sides before grimacing. Rather than her trusty leather jacket with its handy dandy lock picking equipment in the pockets, Emma wore the clothes he lent her, the ones that were slightly too big and lingered with his scent.

He grinned. "I imagine your plan failed as well?"

"Both of my plans failed, you don't get credit for trying to open the door when I tried first. It's your turn, time to start pulling your own weight," she said sarcastically, tapping her watch-less wrist at him. He opened his mouth then closed as he realized she was right. "You figure something out; I'm going to find a weapon."

"What happened to the banana?"

"You took it. Did you drop it? I don't know! It's a banana, what's it going to do?" It certainly hadn't helped her the first time that thing tried to take a bite out of her.

"Maybe the ghost's secret weakness is potassium," he said, lips quirking.

"How do I put up with you?" She sighed, hobbling over to a table and examining one of the lamps. Unfortunately, it was quite heavy and wouldn't be a very practical weapon so she left it alone.

"Because I'm a dashing rapscallion, of course!"

"Killian, be serious!"

"Is lightening the mood a bad thing?"

"Killian."

"Emma," he said, sighing loudly, but didn't continue whatever it was that he wanted to say.

She set down a metal vase, also a useless weapon given how light it was, and turned to him. Despite his easy-going attitude just moments ago, she could see the tension of his shoulders and the tightness of his eyes. Had he been doing it for his benefit? Mask the fear behind the familiar territory of jokes and flirting?

In one of his weird ways of reading her mind just from the look on her face, he said seriously, "Emma, I'm of no use if I'm terrified and neither are you. If this is all it takes to keep us from panicking then I'm not going to stop, but I assure you that I'm not taking this lightly." His gaze drifted to her chest, eyes hardening.

Her fingers rose to the mark, touching it lightly. She nodded, resuming her search for a weapon without replying, but when he picked fun at her for examining the bell at the front desk, she didn't try to stop him.

...

"This is a horrible idea," she said to nobody, scowling as she hovered near the stairs, ignoring the way the floorboards above her creaked and protested as Killian ran down them on swift feet. He made no attempt to be quiet, hoping that if the creature would hear then so would anyone else. Perhaps somebody would answer, somebody that could help or somebody they could help, but she didn't have hope for that, not anymore.

A part of her wondered where everyone went. Another already knew the answer without having to see it with her own eyes, the screams enough to give her an idea. Where else would people be in a hotel being apparently stalked by a monster? No, she didn't think anyone was alive and shuddered with the knowledge that the only people alive were Killian, her, and the monster that killed everyone else.

She drowned out the feeling with the knowledge that if this plan failed, she and Killian would likely join them.

She swallowed her trepidation, shoving all of it in a tiny little box labeled later, and waited, standing in the moonlight beside the stairs for him to return.

Once they realized that the only way out was to either break the door with the chair or by simply unlocking it, they tried to come up with a plan. Her wallet protested breaking the window, but she considered it when loud, high-pitched screams started on the floor above them followed by an ominous silence. She had nearly broken his only hand when that happened, but he nearly did the same with hers so she didn't feel too guilty.

Unfortunately, the glass door was spectacularly thick and anything heavy enough to break it was freaking bolted down. If she got out of here, she would have a word with the owner about his or her clear dabble in dark magic and why they felt the need to build a hotel that catered to this creature's desire.

Then, depending on the answer, punch them. Thinking violently always settled her nerves.

So there went Plan C. Their next plan was simple: find the damn key and just freaking leave. Walk back to Storybrooke, leave this horrible place behind and pretend it never happened. It was an option so appealing that she nearly cried when they discovered absolutely no keys for the front door behind the desk except to an office in the back, which also had no keys or weapons or anything particularly useful.

They tried the windows, too. Breaking them was no luck, opening them was no luck.

Every second spent here made her feel like she was in an elaborate trap. Perhaps even on a show where Mary Margaret and David from Storybrooke would pop out and laugh at her for falling for it. Maybe not them though, because neither would hurt her for the sake of a joke and anything accidental - like say her new limp - would have made them pull the plug.

Maybe Regina. Just because they were trying to be cordial to each other for Henry didn't mean that the two of them would be buddies and if Emma happened to die a horrible, grisly death then she would get to keep Henry to herself. She didn't think that was likely either; the woman wasn't a murderer, at least in this universe.

An even worse possibility was that Killian could be in on it. If this was a joke, would Killian be unwittingly dragged along or would he be the one orchestrating the entire thing? It pained her to admit that it was possible, but the fact that it hurt gave her the strength to acknowledge one very important fact: she knew that he wouldn't. Killian was many things, a gentleman among them, but he wouldn't be this cruel, not to her, not even to get her to fall into his arms.

Admittedly, he probably wasn't going to complain about the latter bit. Not that she swooned, but it was a kiss.

Just a small one.

That lasted for a few minutes, leaving a taste of spice on her tongue. She could still feel his lips against hers despite the frighteningly long minutes that had passed since then. How ridiculous to admit, even to herself, but true the nonetheless.

As she heard the stairs creak heavily, she added the kiss to the box of things to worry about another time, straightening as Killian appeared in front of her, out of breath, but her leather jacket clutched in his fist. He held it out to her. "Didn't… have time… to rummage through it." He panted, slumping against one of the windows.

A shadow stirred at the top, a mass darker than the night, but it didn't join them.

"It's fine," she muttered, taking the jacket from him, poking around in her pockets till she pulled out a small pick and wrench.

"Why do even have that?"

She bit her lip, toying with the torque wrench. "I don't know." It was an old habit, she never knew when sleeping would involve bumming in somebody's car before she had the bug or maybe she kept it for work, when the regular methods didn't work and she had to apply some drastic measures, but she didn't know precisely. She could have elaborated with time and something from his stash of rum - old wounds and all require a boost to speak about - but they had neither so she didn't expand.

He didn't ask.

It had been a while since she did this, but the movements were so instinctive that she didn't have trouble figuring it out. He stood behind her, his back to her as he watched the room. It was more reassuring than it had a right to be. She tilted her head, listening for the clicks, eyes closed in concentration.

Emma stilled.

The room was stuffy, the air off with the lack of power and the clothes she wore too warm with her present anxiety to offer any respite from the heat, and she couldn't quite tell what was different for a moment. Then Killian exhaled shakily, his solid presence disappearing from beside her, and the heaviness returned with a vengeance, pushing down on her shoulders, wrapping her head like a suffocating embrace.

Through it all, she could hear his footsteps getting farther from her and she forced herself to move, head turning with effort.

The creature stood to the right of her, obscured in the dark, as far from the light as it could possibly be, hand extended as though beckoning. Killian answered its call, moving sluggishly away from her, unaffected by the force that held her down. "Killian, please." Her heart threatened to burst out of her chest as its fingers extended, sharp and pointy, two missing from its earlier failed attack.

"Killian," she muttered again, narrowing her eyes. Her breath caught as she forced herself to her feet, the mark squeezing her chest like a snake. Each step took effort, like she was walking through heavy water rather than through the open air.

She pressed on, stumbling forward and nearly falling, catching herself on his shoulders. He stumbled back some, more as she tugged his arm, but he struggled against her. "Killian!"

He wrestled out of her grip, his chest heaving with effort, eyes blank when they turned to her. Like she wasn't even there. An empty shell of the man he was supposed to be. She started to drag him back to the light when something dark and fast struck her chest, like the wind combining to throw a punch, and it knocked her off her feet. Her head struck the floor, her vision swimming briefly, the air catching in her throat.

Undeterred, Killian stopped right in front of it, an empty smile on his face. The creature reached once more, not quite touching, savoring the easy prey in front of it. She scrambled to her feet, growling low in her throat.

"Leave him alone!" For all the force of her words, they fell flat, dropping like a stone, like the air couldn't carry them any farther than out her lips.

She tried to reach him, but the same force that pushed her seemed hell-bent on keeping her away.

Killian didn't make a sound as the creature grabbed his face; she did for him, a loud cry attempting to escape from her, getting no farther than her words. It bent his head back, suddenly much taller than Killian as it lent over him, facing hovering close like it would kiss, but it didn't touch him any further than that.

Beneath his skin, a light began to move, growing brighter as it crept up his neck, ethereal and magical and entirely unnatural. The creature darkened the closer the light came, triumph in its stance.

Emma renewed her struggle, but it did her no good, her knee protesting worse than ever, accompanied by the fierce burn in her chest and the struggling of her lungs for air in a room that seemed to have none. Worse of all was her heart, the one thudding rapidly, the one trying to burst free from her chest, and she was struck with a horrible revelation as Killian grew pale: she loved him.

She loved his friendship, the one that didn't give up on her. She loved his compassion, the kind that befriended somebody that everyone else thought to be prickly, the kind that searched for survivors in a situation that would likely have none. She loved his intelligence, his strength, his resolve, his stupid bantering, his arrogance, and his flaws, even the ones that she hadn't yet met.

She loved him and he was going to die. Just another tragic story for her to recall later, fondly in some parts as she thought of their one and only kiss, but harshly in others as she recalled all the time that she denied even having him as a friend.

Just a memory, nothing more. It seemed that was all she had anymore. The memory of her son as he grew in her stomach, the memory of parents whose faces she never knew but whose embrace she swore she remembered, the memory of Neal and all the scars that he had left behind.

She would never know what they could be if they were given the chance.

"That's not enough for me." She doesn't know where the words came from, but with them came a strength that pushed away the magic holding her down. She stood, teeth gritting, and she ran. Not at the creature, but at the window just beside it, throwing herself against it with the full force of her body. Her teeth snapped together, narrowly avoiding her tongue, but the window didn't budge, only the rod supporting the blackout curtains holding it together rattled.

She tugged on the curtains, trying to open, beginning to hear a piteous cry from behind her.

 _Killian._

They were sewn shut. Fingers digging for a hold, Emma pulled with all her might, the fabric tearing near the top. She pulled harder and the rod snapped inward, slipping from the anchors holding it and thumping uselessly to the floor, the curtain falling with it.

Bright light filled the room from the setting moon.

The creature screeched as it fell on them, trying to use Killian's shadow as a shield, trying to fade into them, but she took three large step forwards, fingers digging into the collar of Killian's shirt, and jerked him backwards. She dragged him to the door, letting him slump against it, safe in the light, but still.

So still.

She didn't look at the creature, kneeling in front of Killian instead, brushing over the scar on his cheek and his bottom lip and the edge of his jaw, not touching the sinister handprints left on his face. He didn't stir, not even to draw a breath.

"Killian, please," she murmured, drawing his hand to her lips, pressing a gentle kiss. He didn't respond, not even an annoying quip, and her eyes filled with tears against her will, streaking down her face and dripping off her chin, each beat of her heart saying _please, please, please_.

He was still and silent and _gone_.

 _Please, please, please._

The noise behind her grew higher, a scream that hurt her ears. Reluctantly, she looked over her shoulder in time to see the creature trapped, no shadow to fall back on. It had no face still, its body flailing and hissing in the light, but she thought if it did, its eyes would be wide with fright. How poetic that it would feel the same fear that all its victims had, the same fear that had probably been Killian's last thought.

She felt no pity for the creature as it burned, just anger and pain swirling in her gut.

Rotting flesh wafted up to her nose and then the creature crumpled into ash, the scream ending abruptly as it did. For a long moment there was only her hiccups as she tried to catch her breath, but then a hum as the lights flickered on above their heads and then a moan of pain from the person in her arms.

She looked down as Killian drew in a sharp breath.


	4. epilogue

**I have signal again to post something. Here's the last chapter!**

* * *

 **Epilogue**

"'Hotel burns to the ground: arson or accident?' I'm not much of a journalist, but the title could use a little more oomph than that," Killian said with a look of disgust, as though he hadn't read it every day since they got back, tossing a newspaper on the sofa. She doesn't know where he got it from, seeing as they were in Storybrooke and the town that they had spent that horrible night in was nearly forty miles away, but she didn't question it. "They shouldn't be so afraid to really get into it."

It was little after midnight, but neither of them could really sleep and that was the way it had been since they arrived in Storybrooke – shaken, cold, and panicked – nearly a month ago. Neither spoke of the events that took place at the hotel – the good or the bad – and it was starting to take its toll. She jumped when the lights flickered, he flinched when a door slammed too loud, and neither spent much time sitting in the dark, but it was getting better with time and would probably continue to do so.

It would probably be faster if they spoke about what happened to each other, she mused, nodding as Killian began to describe much more fitting titles. Neither would though, despite the dance they played each night, pretending that they wouldn't arrive on the other's doorstep in the middle of the night when the fear became too much.

It seemed on the days that he was free from his nightmares, her own would emerge and she would spend the night thinking of his blank eyes, of his still chest, over and over again, until seeing him was the only way to find relief. He would take one look at her on his doorstep, her old pajamas and knotted hair, the lack of shoes, and then he would bring her in with a gentle kiss to her forehead, giving her tea when she couldn't sleep and holding her when she thought she could.

It was sweet and tender, so caring that her chest squeezed to think about it.

Not just him, but herself as well. It wasn't a one-way street that they walked, as many times as he had held her, she had held him, his head resting on her breast and her fingers running through his hair till sleep came over him. It was innocent in a way too, because aside from the occasional kiss to his cheek or the brush of his lips over her forehead, they hadn't addressed the good that had come from that night.

That is, the realization that she was in love with him and that he felt something for her in return.

 _It's complicated_ , she reasoned with herself.

Despite everything unbelievable that had happened that night, that kiss and those feelings were real, she knew it. But so much else had happened, things that sounded crazy to her own ears, and she knew that they needed to have answers, even just a few, to close the door on the supernatural part of their evening before they could even address the love bit.

There was Henry to think of as well. She hadn't seen him since she came back to Storybrooke, feigning illness, to which he had accepted reluctantly. She didn't want to frighten her son with the real reason behind her absence, but she feared he would read the truth on her face. If he saw the fear, would he believe it was from ghosts?

Yes, he would believe her. She didn't want him to though. There were some things that people were better off not knowing and this happened to fall under that category.

She reminded herself of these things before sleep, but when she woke up and scrambled out her door to find him, relief sprouting in her chest each time he answered to her knocks, and she wondered if it wasn't all that complicated after all.

His voice shattered her thoughts. "Swan?" He asked from the table, his laptop open in front of him, eyebrows raising up to his forehead.

The way he looked at her spoke volumes more than the way he called her, like he somehow suspected what the thoughts playing across her mind were, but he didn't push. She wondered if perhaps he should.

"Sorry, what?" She asked, shaking her head.

"You weren't listening to the conversation I just had on the phone at all, were you?"

He had been on the phone? She thought, up until he said that at least, that she had merely missed out on his comical ideas of a newspaper title, but only a quick glance to the clock on his microwave that it had been a few minutes since. Speaking of time… "Who the hell calls at nearly one in the morning?"

He grinned. "Weren't you the one that said you wanted answers, you didn't care when he got back to us as long as it was soon?"

She did recall that. After a long Yelp review about how unsafe the hotel was, lack of emergency exits and the bizarre layout and the overall dreariness of the place at night, she had received an angry phone call from the owner, who didn't seem to enjoy the insults and one-star rating that she left on his mother's hotel. After telling her that she would never, ever be allowed back there – like that was somehow a huge loss when Emma probably wouldn't _ever_ sleep in a hotel again – the man had hung up, not realizing that he had offered her a very big and very important clue.

That is, he admitted that the hotel wasn't actually built by him, but by his mother, and that the idea of the whole thing, both the design and the evil lurking in it, should probably be directed at her. Not in those words exactly, but that was the summary that Emma had supplied to Killian's dubious brother when they requested that he use his skills as a private investigator to find the mother, an older woman named Guinevere Noble.

"That was Liam?" She said, shifting her legs out from underneath her, feet planting on the floor like she would somehow be able to pounce across the room and into Guinevere's house in one smooth move.

"Aye. He's got something for us and you won't believe how close she lives," he said, unplugging his laptop and crossing the room, sitting beside her. On the screen was a map of a forest. She squinted at it, wishing that her glasses were on hand rather than sitting on his nightstand, when he zoomed in, pointing at a splash of red in the middle of green. "That, my love, is a manor in the middle of nowhere. But it happens to be in Maine."

She gave him a blank look, inwardly smiling at his term of endearment. _His love._ Complicated indeed. "Really? I had no idea."

"Allow me to illuminate this all for you then: this manor in the middle of nowhere is owned by one G. Nolan. No relation to David, before you ask."

"Who the hell is G. Nolan?" She could guess, but she might as well just let him spell it out.

"Liam explained all of this if you were listening. Her dear son goes to that area a week before her birthday and vanishes from all social media till the day after – and also the son sends a rather nice chunk of money to a person named GN. Coincidence?"

"No, probably not."

"You don't sound relieved that we're going to get answers," he noted, closing his laptop and setting it on the coffee table. He got comfortable again, stretching his legs out and slumping back against the cushions.

"I am," she said, leaning her head on his shoulder. He caught her hand, holding it in his lap, stroking her fingers with a small hum to request an elaboration. "Just worried about what she'll say. If she'll say anything. I mean, she's old, she's probably senile by now, I doubt she's going to open her door and be like 'Yes, it was I.'"

"I doubt that's what she would say. She would probably wonder how we found her house, or threaten to call the police, or maybe her friend's on the other side will answer the door and then we'll both be puppets," he replied. She lifted her head, dropping it roughly back on his shoulder – it hurt her more, but he still jumped.

"Something tells me she wouldn't do that either. I mean, can you imagine that creature wearing an apron and asking for our coats?" She snorted, but he fell silent and she shifted to look at him, seeing his brows drawn together, sending a spark of fear through her. Had she brought a bad memory up? Was he going to say that they shouldn't joke about that? Would he-?

"I don't remember what it looked like," he admitted gruffly. He cleared his throat, continuing on in a low voice, like somebody other than her would somehow hear him. "I just… Every time I think of it, I see… a blank canvas, like that piece of my memory was never painted down for me to see later."

She thought of all the times that he had faced it directly, shivering as she recalled the blankness to his eyes, the way he had succumbed the creature without a fight. How he had tried to fight _her_ when she tried to stop him.

She had thought about it constantly, wondering how it got him more than once, but it never even tried to get her. She hadn't asked him about what it was like, not wanting to know and not wanting to dredge the memories up, and that was why she hadn't asked him about what happened either. _That was a mistake_ , she realized. They wouldn't get over this without talking.

They couldn't with others, but they could with each other.

"Killian, what do you remember?" She asked, equally quiet. His fingertips faltered in their beat across her fingers and she spun their hands, his palm up, her fingers finding their place between each of his perfectly. Like their hands were made for holding the other.

A faraway look was on his face and she squeezed his fingers, bringing him back to the present.

He blinked, coming back to himself, and he paused for a long moment, mouth opening and closing as he tried to find the words. Then— "I remember seeing you in the lobby, soaking wet and irritated, and I remember thinking you were beautiful, that my night was better just by seeing you. I remember talking with you in the hotel room, how hopeless I felt, and how I really thought that we wouldn't be anything, not even friends. I was going to apologize when I came out, it's not my place to tell you who to care for, but you were feigning sleep and I figured it best to leave you alone."

She tried not to react, not wanting to break the moment, but a part of her melted at his words. _All this wasted time,_ she thought, thinking of the things that kept them apart before and the ones that kept them apart now.

"The screaming woke us up, I remember standing in front of you."

"I can protect myself," she protested, forgetting to keep quiet.

He laughed quietly. "I know, believe me, I know, but that doesn't mean I won't try to protect you if I can."

She thought of Neal then, toying with the chain of her necklace. The third thing he had left for her, Henry and the bug being the other two. "You can't… You can't leave me out of the equation, Killian." Neal had thought he was protecting her, that he was holding her back, and she had suffered the consequences of his decision without ever getting to decide for herself. "I'll protect you, you protect me, but don't make decisions for me."

Her words quivered at the end as she thought of all the phantom faces that she chased. They were always running, never tiring and never once looking back to see who they left behind. She could feel it catching up to her though; she wasn't quick enough to escape or fast enough to catch up, just an almost – she almost caught them, she almost got away from them, she almost kept him, she almost got him, she almost lost. Almost something, always.

She turned her head away from him, wondering if the words _almost enough_ would be written across her forehead.

"I won't leave you, not unless you tell me to," he said firmly.

"Why?" How selfish of her to turn the subject on herself when she was trying to help him. She took and she took from the right people, she gave and she gave to the wrong ones. She didn't know a balance, hadn't ever seen one for herself, but if he thought she was selfish, he didn't say so.

A look crossed his face, disbelief and sadness and fear, and then he smiled, small and fragile, like she had the power to break him as much as he had the power to break her. "Don't you know? I love you."

She kissed him, pouring everything she felt, the conflicts and the fights, the pain and the loss, the love and the passion, and he gave back equally, flooding her with all he knew and felt, pulling her close, so close. The longer his lips were on hers, the farther their troubles seemed to be.

When his lips detached from hers a long while later, she could only think of him and the taste of mint on his tongue, the tingle across her skin as his fingers found the small of her back. He didn't kiss her again, though a part of him looked like he wanted to continue, but instead he stared at her, eyes tracing over her features again, a happy smile on his lips.

"I love you," she murmured after a moment, realizing that she hadn't said as much. Not after what happened, not after he said it first.

The smile on his face froze, disbelief on his face, and he studied her face, not memorizing it, but searching, like he didn't know if it was true or just the moment speaking. She knew when he found the answer, the smile spreading wide across his face, beautiful and warm, like the sun appearing on a cloudy day.

All the poetic stuff that Emma hadn't ever given thought to before.

He kissed her and all thoughts of the hotel disappeared, buried under the feel of his lips on hers.

…

The next morning was different than all the rest, partly because they spent more time kissing than getting ready for the day, and also because once they were ready, the two were filled with dread about what they had to face. The address that Liam had given them for Guinevere wasn't far from Storybrooke, only about two hours away, and better for them to get answers now rather than sit on questions forever.

Still, they were going to face a very dangerous woman, one who must have known what she was doing when she built such a hazardous hotel, and it would be silly to say that Emma wasn't a little afraid of what Guinevere could do. The woman might have been old – early fifties – but surely it wasn't a coincidence that the creature chose her hotel to attack? No, she rather thought that the whole thing was orchestrated, that Guinevere had wanted everyone to die.

 _Why?_

That was one of the questions that Emma would ask her.

Whether they would get answers or not was another matter. Would she take one look at them and curse them? Perhaps confronting her in the forest, without telling anyone where they were going, was a foolish idea. Scratch that, it was a stupid idea. Full stop.

"We can turn around, you know," Killian injected, his fingers running over a paperback book sitting in his lap, the edges of it frayed from use and the title too worn to even read. It was his favorite book, something he used to calm down whenever he felt too keyed up, but he hadn't opened it since they climbed into her newly repaired bug. "But we also… can't."

It was rare for him to be in such a loss for words, but she could understand why. Like her, he had doubts about what they were doing.

She tilted her head to smile nervously at him, hoping that show of emotion would say the words that she couldn't form. Unlike him, she never did have a way with words, communicating with actions, knowing those were less likely to lie. For him though, she returned her eyes to the road and said, "We have to do this. I'll sleep better when I can look her in the face and ask why."

"Agreed though I would prefer to burn all her spell-books or cauldrons to the ground so she can't do anything like this again, but answers would be very helpful. I'm still not sure if any of this happened." She didn't reply, knowing that he didn't actually need an answer. They both knew it was real. "Pretty dangerous way to go about it. If we disappear, at least Liam will know where we're at, but I don't think anyone else will."

The rest of the car ride passed much in the same atmosphere: long silences filled with tension about what they would see, brief glances that brought both comfort and heat as memories from the night before filled their minds, and mindless chatter. They only paused when it came time for Killian to pull up more specific directions, scribbling them down in case his phone lost connection midway through.

He directed her into a town not much bigger than Storybrooke, but a lot older and filled with cheery, bright colored houses. Further they went, down the less populated streets, houses dotted here and there, until even they disappeared, lost among the many trees that sprouted up instead. It was daylight still, only a little after eleven in the morning, but the leaves obscured the sun and made it seem later. Her fingers were tight around the steering wheel as he directed her off the main road.

The road seemed to go on for miles - at one point the asphalt ended and became gravel, and another turn for it to become dirt - until they reached a wide, paved driveway leading up to a large, brown manor with many yellow glass-stained windows and a porch wrapped around the edges. The splash of red was the strange reddish roof. It looked like it had been beautiful at one point, but time had made its mark on it, leaving it dirty, broken, and overall frightening.

"I can't believe this," she murmured, slowing to a stop a distance from the front door. "This is…"

"The kind of place where someone with a lot of money wouldn't live?"

Well, no, but that too. From what she knew, Guinevere had made the hotel many years ago and the profit from it, being the only hotel in miles inside a town along the highway. She should have something much nicer than this. "Maybe she's doing repairs."

"Or maybe she's too busy summoning demons and making voodoo dolls for her to bother with repainting," he supplied, his brows drawn together. "I suppose we should go knock – plan still on?"

In their time driving, they had agreed that it was probably best for them to have some sort of plan going in, but it wasn't much of one. Emma would stay in the car while Killian knocked, if the door opened and anything looked remotely unsafe, he would go back to the car and they would leave this, and their questions, behind.

Not exactly bulletproof, Guinevere could stab him before he could even start running, but hey.

She nodded. He climbed out of the car and walked up the steps, pausing to take a breath before he knocked on the grand door. There mustn't have been a doorbell and she wondered how Guinevere would even hear them if she happened to be somewhere else in the house, but Killian had only lifted his hand to knock again, slightly louder no doubt, when it pulled open.

She couldn't see inside, it was too dark in the doorway and the porch cast shadows over them, but she did see when he took a step back and a large tabby cat sauntered onto the porch, rubbing against his ankles. "Swan, I think we're alright," he called to her. She shut off the engine, the roar fading way to the thudding of her heart, galloping as it did with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. She silenced her fears and left the car.

The porch steps creaked under her weight, but no spiders jumped out and nothing broke beneath her feet. Up close, the manor looked less terrible – broken still, but less dusty, like somebody made an attempt to clean. Guinevere, perhaps.

Emma faltered before she reached the top, mouth falling open as she stared at the figure in the doorway: a woman leaned on a cane heavily, her face lined with time and her wavy hair graying with age. Another cat, this one white and grey, stood just behind her, meowing loudly, sounding exactly as it had that night in the car.

It was the woman who gave Emma a ride to the hotel.

The woman that Emma had considered to be low on the list of possible killers.

The woman who had more than likely been attempting to lead Emma to her death.

She felt Killian's gaze on her, confused by her response, but then Guinevere smiled pleasantly. "Hello, Miss. Swan." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Killian's surprise increase and wondered if the same look was on her face. She hadn't given the old woman her name that night, but somehow, the woman knew it anyway. What was going on?

"Who the hell are you?"

"My name is Guinevere, but you've already figured that out if you're here. Would you like to come in and talk?" She gestured inside.

Killian and Emma stood still, feet planted firmly on the floor, half expecting a ghostly presence to force them into the manor. None came, but Guinevere sighed like it was an inconvenience, pressing past both of them and instead leading to a patio set on the porch. There was a bench against the wall, seating possibly three, facing out and then a single chair facing the house.

Guinevere sat in the single chair.

Neither made a move to sit. Emma wasn't sure if that was simple defiance or if he felt as frozen as she did.

Guinevere settled comfortably, her cane leading on the railing. A look of distaste crept over her face when she noticed that they hadn't joined her. "Oh, feel free to tire out your feet, but I am an old woman and I can't be expected to handle something so tiring. Now, I'll get right to it then, since neither of you seem to be capable of speaking: is it dead?" She asked bluntly.

"It?" Killian repeated, exchanging a look with her. The creature, they both seemed to think. She shuddered thinking of it, casting a watchful look around, as though it would come bursting through the trees or from the house. The only good thing about the creepy manor was that it was set in a clearing, the sun shining down on them, warming her flesh and quieting her fears.

"Don't play stupid, boy. I know you were there; it's power still lingers on both of you. I'm half surprised that you even lived with so much of it on you." She directed her words to Killian, who looked both puzzled and threatened. Rightfully so, considering Guinevere had just said that he should have died. Or the lingering power thing. Which was worse to think about?

Watching his face, Emma couldn't tell which way he was thinking, only that her words had turned him introspective.

For Emma, her words rekindled the fire that her appearance had doused. Emma stood up straighter, arms crossed over her chest. "Look, lady, I don't know who the hell you think you are, but you're fucking insane. We could have died – a lot of people _did_ die! And you just sat back and let it happen. Hell, you _helped_ that thing."

Guinevere huffed. "I did no such thing."

"Really? Because from my point of view, you practically gift-wrapped me and dropped me off on the creature's front door."

"I was trying to help."

 _Yeah, the creature_ , she thought, biting her lip hard, trying to have patience.

Killian took over the interrogation. "Who? Who were you trying to help?" He asked calmly, his stance remarkably relaxed for someone who had been looking doubtful about his existence thirty seconds ago. It was one of the things she loved about him, how he found his footing quickly. She spotted the way he rubbed the back of his neck and realized that he hadn't figured out his dilemma, but had put it aside for now.

Perhaps he had a box labeled later as well.

"All of us," Guinevere said softly. She sighed and a brown cat leapt into her lap, comforting her by nudging her face and meowing softly. "When my husband and I built the hotel, we didn't intend for things to turn out this way, we just knew that hotels were the perfect business in that town. We didn't have a shortage of customers, see. That ghost showed up around this time eleven years ago and ruined everything."

"Ghost?" Emma repeated skeptically.

"Yes, it was just a ghost then. Didn't harm much, just tried to scare people, and then, one year, someone died. How the person died wasn't of consequence, but the way the ghost reacted to the death was… It changed after that. Oh, it came back every year, but it didn't scare people anymore, it killed them. It wasn't quite skilled in the beginning, more shadow than beast, and all the deaths were just horrible accidents. Until the fire, at least, that's when it became less of a ghost and more of a demon."

A faraway look was on Guinevere's face, the loss playing across her vision, and Emma knew she wasn't talking about the fire that had consumed the hotel a month ago. There must have been another one, she thought, and Guinevere must have lost someone in it. That was the only way to explain the look of intense longing on her face.

She stepped closer to Killian and he wound an arm around her waist, holding her close to his side. His thumb stroked her side comfortingly and she squeezed the arm around her waist, holding tightly to him.

Guinevere cleared her throat. "I'm not sure how the fire started, but suffice to say, many people died. I had hoped the creature had died too, but when we rebuilt, we couldn't take that chance and so we tried to make it difficult for it to navigate. Thankfully so, because it came back again, the fire giving it strength I didn't expect."

"How did the fire give it strength?"

"It grows stronger with each death, Miss. Swan." Emma became cold, her nails digging into Killian's wrist. Hadn't she first seen the creature as just a shadow in their room? Hadn't it been almost transparent on the stairs? Hadn't it been frighteningly solid later? _It grows stronger with each death…_ "Why, if it killed enough people, it would probably be strong enough to break free from the chains holding it down."

"The hotel," Killian said quietly. "It can't leave."

"Indeed."

"I don't see how you sending Emma into its arms was helping anyone still," Killian prodded, reminding Emma that despite everything Guinevere had said so far, she had still nearly killed Emma.

"It comes the same day every year. I make it a point to see who is there, to encourage some of them to leave, though I have little success with that, I am just a mad cat woman after all, but then I saw you and that ridiculous red jacket."

Emma stiffened, insulted as she glanced down at her sleeve. It wasn't ridiculous at all, it was comfortable and safe and it was her armor against the world.

Killian pressed his thumb into her side, just enough to draw her attention back to the matter, his lips twitching despite the situation. Guinevere continued, not seeming to notice Emma's falter in concentration. "You're powerful, I can feel it. You had protection as well— "

"Powerful? Protection? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Are you going to start telling me I've got some Harry Potter superpowers?"

"No, dear, that's insane, there's no such thing as magic like that. There is, however, a type of power that people are born with, the kind that makes them stronger against supernatural forces, it's untrained, but I thought that would be enough to stop the creature. As for protection, why, I was thinking of your necklace. Don't you know? Silver protects the mind, it's why you survived, otherwise you would have fallen under that thing's compulsion."

They were silent, taking all her words in. Or, rather, Emma tried to, but decided the entire thing was ridiculous and instead latched onto the only important thing in that entire monologue. "Compulsion… as in controlling someone?" She asked tentatively. "It could make people think that they wanted to go to it, that anything – or anybody – stopping it were an opponent."

"Yes," Guinevere said with a significant look at Killian. "Hence why you see my surprise at your survival. You wear no silver at all, I imagine you didn't then. How did you live? One look and it should have had you in its grasp."

That was why Killian couldn't remember, that was why he kept falling into a trance when the creature got too close. It had been messing with his mind, it had kept him from fighting back. _It was why nobody else in the hotel had fought back at first_ , she realized with a pang. Those screams were from the people who had been wearing silver, who had some protection against it.

How many hadn't?

She toyed with her necklace. The swan part wasn't silver, it was more like metal, but the chain was silver, real silver, something that had cost Emma quite a bit to buy, but worth it. It was meant to be poetic, that she had something real and something bought to hold the fake and stolen swan that Neal had given her. Who would have thought that it was useful?

"Whenever the creature came, I don't remember what happened. As soon as I saw it, everything goes blank, but I remember being with Emma before it happened and I remember her after I returned to normal. Emma, you must have saved me," Killian said, a sad smile on his face, no doubt thinking of all the people who hadn't had her by their side.

She dropped her hand from the necklace, leaning into him silently.

"I thought I was helping everyone by bringing you there. Was I right?" Guinevere asked, triumphant. "Is the hotel safe now?"

Emma shifted. The creature was dead, Guinevere was right about that, but was she right about the rest? Was she right to let the hotel stay standing, to let people come in and die? No. Was she right to send Emma in, only hoping that she would win? No.

Despite everything else that Guinevere had done, trying to save people from the hotel, she could have done more. She could have closed it down, leaving it abandoned, the creature trapped inside, and it would have grown weaker with the lack of people to kill, perhaps it would have even faded entirely.

"The creature – the demon – is dead. But you're wrong about everything else and if you're smart, you won't rebuild the hotel again and you won't let your son either. Have some honor," she said sharply. "Congratulations for being selfish for years while people died, I hope your money's worth it." She looked around the manor, less sinister than it had at first glance; it was more lonely and sad than anything, and she shook her head.

This is what greed had bought her. The sympathy she had felt, the pity, it vanished at the look of surprise on Guinevere's face. Not guilt, not sadness – surprise, anger. Like Emma had somehow been the one to ruin everything.

"Well, you have your answers, dears. I suppose you can go on your way now."

Emma nodded, stepping out of Killian's embrace to leave. He didn't move immediately, lingering on the porch, and asked, "Why didn't you ever just close it down?"

"It was safe the rest of the year, it was just that time when things were bad," she replied, petting her cat still.

They left after that.

…

They were on the couch again, her laying on top of him, her head leaning on his chest and his chin resting on her head, his breath whooshing over her hair. It wasn't the most comfortable position, the couch wasn't built to hold two people like this, but after their return from Guinevere's, she had been too numb to do anything except slump down. Likewise, he did the same, and all it took was him pulling her into his arms for her to crack.

She didn't cry, but she did find her words finally. They rushed out of her, some to do with the hotel and some to do with life in general, like a dam had broken and unleashed everything that she hadn't been able to say and all those boxes labeled later finally overturned. He had held her the entire time, brushing down her hair or stroking her back or kissing her cheek, and Emma had thought she fell more in love with him by the time she was done.

After the guilt, of course. Because it seemed like they were always focused on her – her thoughts, her feelings, her inadequacies – and she knew that he had some of his own, some that he probably hadn't wanted to tell her or maybe he couldn't.

Either way, she had offered to listen and he had obliged.

She wasn't sure how many hours passed, talking back and forth, all the subjects they had avoided finally coming to light, but they had eventually succumbed to sleep. Emma had only woken up a few minutes prior, not wanting to move from him and his warmth. Though her stomach and bladder protested equally, their wants were ignored.

Guinevere had said powers. That was ridiculous, of course, because there was no such thing as magic. But, then again, hadn't Emma said there was no such thing as ghosts either?

She wasn't sure what to think about it.

Instead she felt guilt. All those people, gone before they were meant to go. Guinevere could have done more – Emma wondered if she could have too.

"Don't," he mumbled blearily, his hand running through her hair, getting tangled in the golden strands.

"Don't what?"

"Think like that. There was nothing we could have done differently, you or me."

"Are you sure there's no such thing as magic? I think reading my mind counts."

"I'm sure there's such thing as magic, but I don't possess any of it. You were talking out loud."

Oh. She blinked once, frowning slightly, before she snorted, resting her forehead down on his chest, one of the buttons on his shirt poking her nose. "I didn't realize I did that."

He laughed too, shifting his weight. "I didn't either, but I learn new things about you every day, Swan."

"Like what?" She said, tilting her head to look up at him and smiling. His eyes were open, bluer from sleep than she thought possible, and entirely focused on her – it was a heady feeling, to be so completely loved by someone that just talking with her seemed to make them happy, but more than that, it surprised her by how much she enjoyed it too.

She hadn't thought she would feel that way about love, but then again, she hadn't loved him before.

"Well, apparently you snort when you laugh."

True. "I don't do that, sorry, you must be confusing me with another Emma."

"Ah perhaps it was with the lovely Emma Bennett then," he mused, earning a light tap on his nose. "You wear a ridiculous red jacket."

"That's not new."

"The ridiculous part is. It's a little hot to be wearing one, isn't it?"

"Says the one that has a heavy leather jacket inside his closet," she pointed out.

"Fair enough," Killian conceded, falling silent as he thought of the next thing to say. He sat up suddenly, nearly knocking her off the couch, but he merely caught her legs and shifted so that she was sitting in his lap. "Not quite what I intended to do, I must admit."

She rolled her eyes, preparing to climb off, but he kissed her before she could move, pressing her to him. Butterflies flit across her stomach, her lips burning from his touch, his tongue darting into her mouth, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, tongue lazily stroking his. His apartment could light on fire and she wouldn't have noticed, comfortable as she was kissing him, fingers trailing up and down his back with a whisper of touch.

How easily they moved from words to touches, from serious to less so.

He broke away, his hair mussed and a wicked smile on his lips.

"As much as I would love to continue, I did have a point when I sat up," he said, standing up and setting her legs on the floor. She didn't point out that he had started it, mainly because she was annoyed that he wasn't finish it already. Shooting him a look, she dropped her arms, stepping away from him and fixing her hair.

When she finished, he led her into his room, letting her sit on his bed. "Didn't you have a reason for sitting up?" She asked, looking pointedly at his bed, grinning at the way his eyes darkened some at the clear invitation.

"In a moment, lass. I was thinking… about what Guinevere said," he said, uncharacteristically hesitant as he stood in front of her.

She sobered, resting her hand on his. "She said a lot."

"About silver keeping us safe."

Her necklace seemed cold against her neck at the knowledge. He dropped her hand, rummaging around in his dresser and returning to her with a long, silver chain. Her breath stopped in her throat as she spotted a ring hanging off of it, also silver but with a beautiful red stone. Was he going to-?

"Don't panic, Swan. I'm not proposing, not yet. This belonged to my brother, he gave it to me when I moved to the states, he said that it was a lucky charm, that it would keep whoever wore it safe. I know you already have something to keep you safe, but I wanted this one to be from me," he finished, holding it out for her, a hopeful smile on his face. It was the smile that did her in and she held her hand out, letting him drop the chain into her palm.

Unlike her necklace, it was warm. She knew it was from him holding it, but a part of her, even the one that didn't believe in magic or ghosts or even love, thought that it was his protection encompassing her. She squeezed it tightly and took a deep breath. Then, she unlatched the swan necklace around her neck, the charm slipping off one side, falling to floor, until only the chain remained.

He watched, confused, until she held the chain out to him.

"I'm not good with words, you know that. I bought this chain myself, you know, one of the first things I did and it's been my protection for years. It held something that hurt me, as a reminder to not let myself be hurt by people again. I trust you and I love you and I don't need it while I have this," she lifted the necklace he gave her, smiling. She slipped her own necklace into his hand. "But this is my protection to you. You'll save me and I'll save you, right?"

She didn't know how to finish speaking, close to rambling if she wasn't there already, but he helped her with that, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her close, kissing her urgently, skillfully, and she melted under his touch, feeling as though something warm and wonderful was wrapping around her, around them, almost like a bubble, almost like magic.

…

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 **the end**

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 **I want to send huge thanks to Angelique, Heather, Lana, and all my reviewers. Your encouragement and kind words were so appreciated while I wrote this project, even if some of you were probably sick of me talking about it. I loved writing it and I absolutely loved reading the responses on it on both fanfiction, ao3, and tumblr.**

 **I actually have ideas to turn this into a trilogy of sorts, where we get to see Emma and Killian on their next ghostly encounter, there's plenty of cliches for me to play with, but until I actually sit down to write that, I hope this was a fitting ending. If there's any moments you want me to see, or maybe Killian's perspective at certain points, don't hesitate to ask.**


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